


As The Garden Says

by Artyphex



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 21:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artyphex/pseuds/Artyphex
Summary: Aziraphale has always enjoyed theater, and he very much enjoys playing the character of Brother Francis.





	As The Garden Says

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this adorable art on tumblr https://thacmis.tumblr.com/post/185786158931/doodle-from-twitter-nanny-crowley-%CA%96 by thacmis and couldn't help myself! I hope you enjoy.

It would come at no shock to anyone that Aziraphale liked theater. 

He looked like the kind of man to like theater. He looked like the kind of man to show up at a five-hour opera and pay fervent attention instead of using the whole affair to get drunk off nice wine in nice clothes sitting on nice, uncomfortable furniture. Which is what Crowley did the one, and only, time Aziraphale had convinced him to come along. 

Crowley was sure that Aziraphale would have been an actor in a mortal life, he isn’t sure if he would have been a good actor, but an enthusiastic one at the very least. One does have to be somewhat good at acting to be immortal on earth, blending into human society and convincing those nearby that yes, you are, in fact, human even though you haven’t aged a day in ten years, so one usually picks up the skill willingly or no. Aziraphale, however, loves to play true characters when he gets the chance. Eccentric characters like magicians, very odd bookstore owners, or old gardeners. 

Crowley had put a decent amount of effort into becoming Nanny Ashtoreth. He’d decided that she was kind in a very poisonous way, smoothed-voiced and caring, slowly digging into your mind. Like nightshade, Nanny Ashtoreth was beautiful but toxic. He would have fun with that. He’d also decided she was stylish, but that was more of a given; what’s the point if she isn’t stylish? 

His pre-planning ended about there. He’d play it by ear after that. He was very good at improvising he liked to think. 

Crowley knew that Aziraphale would take his character a bit farther, and believed he would be ready for whatever Aziraphale had thought up. _I’ll be a gardener._ He told Crowley, _Brother Francis. He’ll be wonderful!_

Crowley had tried to picture this “Brother Francis.” He’d come up with the image of a man in a straw hat and overalls who probably played the banjo, or more accurately, made banjo music play in the minds of everyone when he entered a room. 

Crowley was not, however, prepared for Brother Francis. He’d expected Aziraphale to put in an effort but this, this was too much. The sideburns that dwarfed his face, the teeth so large he couldn’t properly close his mouth, the way he walked less like a walk and more like scooting slowly forward, one side at a time. 

Crowley burst out laughing when Aziraphale first showed him Brother Francis, and when he commented on his walk, Aziraphale said Crowley walked like a snake who recently regrew legs, to which Crowley protested. 

They did at least look like the absolute polar opposite of the other, which Crowley supposed was effective in the duality of good and evil they were trying to put in the young Antichrist’s head. Nanny Ashtoreth did try to keep her face as straight as she could when she saw Brother Francis in the garden. They had a habit of running into Brother Francis when she returned with Warlock after a day out, and Warlock always ran straight to him. 

“Nanny took me to the museum today!” Warlock told Francis as he quietly weeded the garden, whistling a hymn. 

“Did she?” Francis said, standing to face him. He held a basket in one hand filled with green weeds. Crowley had told him to let them rot a bit and then put them back in the soil. The fear of knowing the weaker of them will be fed to the strong was excellent growing motivation. 

Warlock nodded an excited boyish nod. “She says when I grow up, it will all be mine. She says kings will kneel before me and beg me to take their crowns!”

Francis gave him a buck-toothed smile. The kind of smile that made distant birds chirp. “Ah, but you know,” he said, “The best gifts are those that are given to you, Master Warlock, but if another has what you want, you must first ask.” 

“Always?” 

_“Always_ , even for something as small as say…” He gestured to the bed of flowers behind him. “A flower from a garden.” 

Warlock stared from Francis to the flowers. “Can I have a flower?” 

Francis gave that same bird-chirping smile and shook his head. “Don’t ask me, young master, ask the garden.” 

From where she stood in the yard, Nanny Ashtoreth rolled her eyes, checking her watch. “Your mother is waiting for us, dear.” 

Warlock ignored her, enthralled in Brother Francis’ lesson. He knelt down on his knees and whispered to the garden, “Can I have a flower?” 

Francis knelt beside him, cupping one hand around his ear, leaning into the flowers. “Hear that?” he said. “The garden says ‘Yes.’”

“Really!” 

“Yes,” said Francis. “It says ‘A daisy for young Warlock.” He reached into the garden and plucked a tiny, perfect daisy. 

“Warlock!” Ashtoreth called again. “Your mother-” 

“And,” said Francis. All Aziraphale, having too much fun tormenting Crowley. “It says ‘A rose, for the beautiful lady.’” 

Ashtoreth blinked. 

Francis clipped a perfect red rose off a bush and handed both flowers to the boy. Who ran excitedly back to his nanny’s side, clutching his daisy to his chest while he handed her the rose. 

Ashtoreth looked over to Francis. Still smiling, he slowly took off his hat and held it to his chest. He gave her a small, adoring bow. 

Ashtoreth gave an amused chuckle and took the flower, tucking it into her hat. “Come along, my dear,” she said and led Warlock into the house. 

—-

“You know it confuses him when you do things like that,” Crowley said. He and Aziraphale sat in a small coffee shop near Aziraphale’s bookshop. They’d chosen to stop on their way back from submitting their reports, and take a much-needed break. 

“Things like what?” Aziraphale replied, taking another bite of banoffee pie, not looking up from his newspaper. 

“Things like that _flower_ ,” Crowley said, leaning back into the booth. His black coffee untouched and growing cold. 

Aziraphale looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “It’s my character, Crowley! Brother Francis is a kind old fellow-” 

“ _Odd_ old fellow.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “What’s wrong with a flower?” 

Crowley leaned on his right hand. He looked away from Aziraphale and tapped on the table with his left. “We aren’t supposed to _like_ each other. Good and evil. Opposing forces. That’s the whole point, right?” 

Aziraphale paused for a moment, staring at Crowley before his eyes went back to his paper. “Well, I don’t think I’m confusing him,” he turned the page, “ _I’m_ teaching him to be kind to _everyone_. Even those you might find…unpleasant.” 

Crowley snapped his gaze back to the angel. “Unpleasant?” 

“You know what I mean!” Aziraphale responded, his tone more mischievous than defensive. “Besides…it suits you.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Does it?” 

“Well, it suits Nanny Ashtoreth.” Aziraphale shifted in his seat. “It’s just like her. Stubborn, beautiful, and-” he scooped another bite of pie into his mouth. “-a bit prickly.” 

_“Prickly?”_

Aziraphale returned to his paper, a pleased smile on his face. 

—-

One of the most tedious tasks of being Warlock’s nanny was helping his mother with dinner. Nanny Ashtoreth knew next to nothing about properly cooking a meal. She just read along whatever recipes Mrs. Dowling printed out, waited for her to look away, and then moved her fingers a bit. Ah! Now the onions are diced perfectly, and the steak is seasoned. _Is that all you needed, ma’am?_

There was also the prospect of listening to Mrs. Dowling’s monologues about her husband, _“I know he’s busy, but it’s our anniversary!” “My mother is going to be there, and he can’t even be bothered to show up?” “He’s lucky is so far away, or I swear to god!”_

To all of which, Ashtoreth would respond with some polite nods and agreeable noises while Bohemian Rhapsody played on a loop in her head. 

Tonight was such a night, Ashtoreth quietly ground garlic with a snap of her fingers, placing it into a tiny bowl and handing it to Mrs. Dowling. “He says he won’t be home for dinner tonight,” she said, punctuating the sentence with a sigh. “Warlock’s going to be upset, would you mind taking him somewhere fun tomorrow?” 

“Of course, ma’am.” 

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a child’s sneakers running across the kitchen tile. Both women turned around to see Warlock, entirely covered in dirt, and holding a collection of pristine red roses. 

Mrs. Dowling saw the dirt first. “What- what have you been _doing?”_ She ran over, grabbing a dishtowel from the sink and trying fruitlessly to rub the dirt from his face. “Have you been rolling around in the garden?” 

“Yes,” Warlock said, holding up the roses. 

Now his mother saw the roses. She placed a hand to her chest. “Are those for me?” 

“No.” 

“Oh.” Mrs. Dowling blinked in surprise. Warlock walked past her, trailing dirt on the white tile until he stood at Ashtoreth's feet. 

“Brother Francis said the garden said it wants you to have these.” Warlock held the flowers high up to Ashtoreth. The petals brushed the base of her chin. 

Ashtoreth stood there for a moment, blinking, jaw slightly agape. Mrs. Dowling’s eyes were on her. Ashtoreth gave a surprised, almost nervous laugh, before wrapping her hand around the stems. 

“Thank you, dear,” she said while holding the roses to her chest. She gave Warlock a polite pat on the head. 

Warlock gave her a big, dirty smile, and ran back out the door. 

Mrs. Dowling stood up, wiping off her skirt. “Brother Francis…” 

“Mhm.” Ashtoreth brought the bouquet up to her nose. They smelled sweet. 

“He’s a nice man and everything, but... sometimes I worry about the things he tells my son.” 

“Hmm.” Ashtoreth brushed her thumb across one of the petals. Soft, red, and perfect. She wrapped her hand tighter around the stems and felt there were no thorns. 

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! 
> 
> I know, I know. I said I would be returning to write for the bnha fandom and I WAS going to, but then I watched Good Omens and things- went downhill for bnha. I apologize, I may still write those stories but I want to write Good Omens right now, and the last thing I want is for fanfiction to feel like a chore. I hope those of your following me can understand. If those of you follow me watched and enjoy Good Omens, then I hope you like this fic!
> 
> I do intend to write more GO! These characters have proven to be VERY fun and I have a few pieces in the works currently! We'll see which ones get finished. 
> 
> You can find me at heimurinn.tumblr.com, a once D&D blog that is now, basically a Good Omens blog.
> 
> Edit: One month and 1500 hits later and I finally go in and change all the references to "Nanny Crowley" to "Nanny Ashtoreth." No, I don't know why it took that long


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